brave

All his life, Barnaby had suffered from this horrible fear of birds. It was a kind of instinct, some uncontrollable, deep horror passed on to him from his ancestors. From some long forgotten, ancient time when birds were a threat to them. A terrible threat. To the point that the fear of them became their nature. It went into their blood to be inherited by their decendants all the way down to Barnaby.

It didn't help him that everybody confirmed him there was nothing to be afraid of. Not that he didn't know! But telling him so just made him feel even more like a weirdo. He asked himself what was wrong with him, why he couldn’t relax like the rest of the world.

What was it that made him freak out with panic at the sight of a few feathers? This was not normal. He was not normal, he began to think.

He had heard that there were more people who are afraid of birds. There was a latin word for it, it sounded very important and he forgot it on the spot. Barnaby didn’t believe it anyway, he had never met one of these people.

He had also read that there was a direct line from the dinosaurs to the birds and that it was possible that there was still an achaic fear of these primeval monsters that some people were able to feel to this day.

Barnaby was not afraid of dinosaurs. He was afraid of birds.

One day he realized that he had to make a choice. He could yield to his obscure anxiety and try to avoid anything bird-related for the rest of his life, forever a prisoner of whatever it was that haunted him. Or prove to himself that there was nothing to be afraid of.

He decided to confront his worst nightmare. This was the day when Barnaby became a hero.

barnaby was brave

free as a bird

I ’dont mind flying, it is not what people imagine, but it’s OK. Just don’t give me that „free bird“ crap. That is made up by people who are just envious ’cause they can’t do it themselves. Just try flapping your arms for an hour, you’ll see what I mean. It is exhausting. Big time.
Plus, just because we can fly, it doesn’t mean we can do what we want. Still gotta build that nest, stuff these beaks, lay those eggs, you know what I mean? I’m lucky I don’t have to migrate like the other guy, would be too much for me.
They say that the early bird catches the worm. True. I’m not a morning person, myself, and I can’t see what is so bad about people throwing breadcrumbs from the bridge. Leave the worms to the early birds, I say. Honestly, would you eat worms? Uuh!

Like I said, I don’t mind flying, just there are these days when I simply can’t get myself around to … guess you know what it’s like. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not exactly lazy. I just don’t like work too much. Flying is a great thing. I love to watch them do it.

I don’t fly today

not a blog post

So I met a bird in a submarine. Needless to say, this looks really strange and of course people started to tell me to write about it in my blog.

Now, this would be the most predictable thing to do.

I could say it’s name was Nemo (it’s not), and describe how Nemo explores new worlds he never knew and maybe talk about a funny encounter with a starfish or a whale or whatever sea animal, post a picture of what I was writing about (the bird in the submarine), and win an award for the dullest idea in a blog. Instant fame.

Trying to avoid to be that boring, I asked Ulisses (that’s his real name) about some adventure he might have had in his submarine. Now Ulisses is not much of a storyteller, all he said was how nice it was to get away from the constant twittering and how he disliked sea animals and that worms weren’t what they used to be in the old days. He also suggested I could write a post about him in my blog. Nice idea, I said and – for a second or two – considered to post a chicken soup recipe instead.

So I decided to write a story about a yeti wandering around the streets of some middlesized european town on a midsummer night trying to buy crushed ice with an expired credit card and illustrate it with a picture of Ulisses in his vessel. This seemed like a less predictable approach, but the yeti was offended (I had to promise to write about him later on, no credit cards involved), and so was Ulisses, who claimed he wasn’t inferior to a yeti and accused me of hating birds out of mammalocentrism (whatever that means).

I give up.
Here is the picture:

a bird in a submarine!

thoughts of a migrating bird

Travelling. It sounds so exciting, but really … after a while you’ve had it. Commuting like this can be exhausting. After all this time you know every single tree and rooftop along the way and all you want is your own cartwheel with a cosy nest of your own.
Does that sound boring? It‘s just that migrating can be such a drag. You’re never quite there, always on your way, you know?
I reckon, after a while one feels the itch to move on again. We’re not easily satisfied with what we’ve got, are we?
Oh, the wind is changing. One more drink and I‘ll be back on the cloud!
See you.

See you. Have a nice air or whatever, I just wish you a good trip. Beware of the turkeys!
Turkeys? What a stupid thing to say, I thought.

have a nice trip

what it‘s like

Well, she said, you know …
I have this friend, or at least this person I know.
She seems to have a little … erm … don’t want to call it a problem, problem is not so nice, a kind of an issue I‘d say, is that a better word, issue?
Anyway this personIknow, hum, she did a »thing«, it just happened to her, i guess she can‘t help it.
It‘s kind of embarrassing when that happens, very not nice thing to do with all people watching and so on, very embarassing.
I imagine it to be embarassing, that is. Talking of if one was in that position like this personIknow.

I listened. She was talking anyway, no need to ask questions.

So I‘m just asking, she went on, theoretically, you know, if this »thing« happened to someone, what would I do? Just interested, of course, I don’t want you to think … well you could think that maybe I myself …

She fell silent for a while.

You don’t know what it‘s like to be a bird.

I handed her a tissue.

a very not nice thing